The Danish bouncer was having none of my Northface jacket and old black beanie—both strictly for function over fashion, mind you, on a cool Copenhagen night—and that was that.

Those dudes would stay at the Miami Vice themed club and us dudes, who may have just craved a jaunty ride on our rented hotel bikes back to the outskirts of the city for some early morning sleep, would head out.

Sometimes it’s never clear how one finds himself in absolutely ridiculous situations. Maybe it was a missed light, a wrong turn or dawdling in a canal soaked vista, but out there on the dark, positively unmarked Danish streets, this writer was alone. All alone and lost.

It would have been good to have had a functioning cell phone. It would have been better to have known the hotel’s name (hindsight: Was it written on the bike? Did I check?). It would have been best to have done both of the above and grabbed a map at reception while renting the bike. Alas, neither the world, nor this writer, are perfect.

Biking around Copenhagen through the night, lost, for four hours, through sun up (it helps one get his bearings!) is something I’ll never do again, but wouldn’t live without. As it goes, the dudes I left with were equally lost, and opted for ditching their bikes and taking a hellish cab ride home. Those other dudes that stayed at the club made it home in a cool 20. As for me, I was the last to show up, 6:00 a.m. in all its that-other-golden-hour-glory, riding my bike like some wounded cowboy on his horse, wearied but not defeated. The best thing about being the last to return? Nobody said, “Dude, we’re waiting on you.”

Late this past summer, etnies embarked on a tour of Scandinavian Europe through Helsinki, Finland, Oslo, Norway, Copenhagen, Denmark and Amsterdam, Netherlands. Through some hangovers, twisted ankles and hot-pockets, all the dudes agreed it was one of the smoothest and most hitch-free trips they’d been on. However, there was one thing that loomed over everyone’s head, everyday: Don’t be the last to the van.

Helsinki

Bluntslide – Nick Garcia

Kickflip boardslide – Albert NybergHover image toanimate sequence

Boardslide fakie – Axel CrysburghsHover image toanimate sequence

Frontside crook to fakie – Willow

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The first stop of the tour landed us in Helsinki, Finland.

The city has an old, Russo-Upper Midwestern feel to it (from a Minnesotan’s point of view) and for the week we were there, the city was jam-packed with skaters from all over for Helsinki Hook-Up, an international contest held in a hockey stadium. In Helsinki, the dudes had a fairly stacked schedule of a demo, a couple of signings and some contest runs. Euro team rider Barney Page popped in to kill the demo and at one of the signings, a young Fin asked Sam McGuire, photog, where his eyebrow ring was (a vestigial, later infected King of the Road bit of trivia) and we knew the skaters in Helsinki were legit.

There, Ricki Bedenbaugh, video man, began the stigma of being the last to the van from day one. Bedenbaugh, known in some circles simply as “Ricki the Dude,” bestowed the first “Dude, we’re waiting on you,” to etnies newcomer Nick Garcia, who, boots on the ground or not, was the chronically last dude to the van throughout the first couple of days.

Helsinki was fruitful. Albert Nyberg, etnies Euro rider and blower of minds, won best trick at the Hook-Up, posters were signed, Karhu was drunk and reindeer was eaten. Kitos Finland.

In Oslo, Sean Malto showed up to give Nick a run for his money as the undisputed “Dude, we’re waiting on you,” champ.

In Oslo, Sean Malto showed up to give Nick a run for his money as the undisputed “Dude, we’re waiting on you,” champ. Be it from having weathered a hurricane in New York City days before, or becoming the “Welterweight Street League Champion Of The World” some other days before, we’ll never know, but Malto must have needed his sleep.

Oslo was a month off of a terrorist bombing and the effects were obvious throughout the area we stayed, in the form of still shattered or boarded-up windows (the bomber also shot and killed many people outside the city). The skaters there welcomed the dudes with open arms and one even remarked that it meant a lot to have some U.S. guys there in the face of such a national tragedy.

Oslo, amazing if a bit expensive for U.S.D. users, provided a signing (Malto look-alikes inhabit the world over), a demo at the city hall where Axel Cruysberghs (Belgium’s “Next Top 16-year-old Model” or Euro team rider) destroyed and a brick-volcano-thing where Ryan Pearce (just R.P.) beat everyone doing three NBD’s in about half an hour.

Top the whole Oslo-thing with a McGuire inspired trip to the ice bar and some karaoke (M.J. might be dead, Jose Rojo might channel him) and skate-spot-barbecues and it’s a rap.

Copenhagen Skatepark saw a packed demo where Danish mothers picnicked, eating snacks and smoking cigarettes, whetting on red wine. Willow toughed out a rolled ankle suffered in Oslo and demoed as hard as he could, supping on Carlsberg and Tuborg afterwards. Speaking of Carlsberg and Tuborg, a gas station nearby our hotel witnessed one of the most prolific and spontaneous renegade parties in recent history. The world is our graveyard, indeed. Avoid or go to Club 43, take your pick. Everyone was mostly prompt to the van.

Amsterdam

"This is goin' on the Insta!" – Jose Rojo

Sunset in Amsterdam

Pearce and boobs

Ninja

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Rush hour traffic in Amsterdam, our last stop on the trip, at least on the stretch of road required to make to our signing in time, was horrific.

Ricki may or may not have stared the traffic down and said, “Dude, we’re waiting…” You get the picture. The tram is the preferred way to get around Amsterdam, and after a signing fueled by short-boys of Heineken, we barged (via water) our way to the Amsterdam Skatepark/bar for a late night session.

The following rainy evening, the dudes skated their final demo of the trip at Amsterdam Skatepark. Devine Calloway got his bigspin disaster revert (on a nursed bum ankle; he’s recovering) and Euro rider, Julian Furones, along with Nick and Malto and Willow and Jose and Albert tore up a small slice of Holland. The next morning we regrouped and scattered back to the States and other Euro destinations.

There’s a chance, and I might not know this for a fact, that Ricki was late to his flight at Schiphol airport in Amsterdam. He ran up to the gate just as the gate was closing and the gate agent said in near perfect, colloquial English, “Dude, we’re waiting on you.” We may never know.